


The Devil You Don't

by pepe_silvia



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepe_silvia/pseuds/pepe_silvia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I’m not looking to make any friends,” the devil finished. </em>
</p><p> <em>Too bad, Natasha thought, because Clint <strong>is</strong>.</em></p><p> <br/>After hearing about the things going down in Hell’s Kitchen, Clint and Natasha decide to adopt the puppy that is Daredevil. He might resist a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t seen Age of Ultron yet, so no spoilers for that. I also haven’t read the comics, but for, like, three Daredevil comics, so this is gonna stay MCU. It’s been awhile since I saw the first Avengers, so hopefully my characterization isn’t too off. Also, I haven’t written fanfic in probably eight years, and this isn’t beta’d, so proceed at your own risk. I really just wanted more Avengers/Daredevil fic where they don't figure out his identity so quickly. And then it somehow dissolved into BroT3. Fair warning, I don’t know where this is going yet.

Natasha watched the tape over and over again, a keen eye dissecting every twitch and fluid movement. The devil either pirouetted like a snake suspended in water or jabbed like a boxer on the ropes. He was trained, but not as much as Natasha. No, what impressed her was his uncanny ability to sense movement all around him. Someone could be sending a fist towards his occipital bone and he’d dodge without even turning his head. Natasha could sometimes manage that, just from having performed the dance often enough to know when the next beat would land. She didn’t think the devil had that sort of experience, though. He couldn’t always anticipate a move, but he was quick enough to counter it the second his enemy twitched. Then again, she only had two minutes of grainy security camera footage as a reference, and she was wise enough to know that that wasn’t enough time to get a full handle on anyone, let alone this devil.

 

(Full disclaimer: she didn’t believe in a devil or god, only actions and intentions, but the names people gave each other were important. Sometimes she was called the nightmare of men, people whispered that Bucky was a ghost, and the citizens of Hell’s Kitchen thought the devil was alive and among them. She had fought against people more skilled than this masked vigilante, but she thought that if she could see his eyes they would be alight with a fiery purpose rarely seen. And people with that kind of purpose, well-intentioned or not, were as devil-like as anyone she’s met.)

 

She had been following the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen’s progress somewhat closely. She liked to keep her ear to the ground, especially after SHIELD’s demise, so it seemed prudent to watch for new developments in the city she was currently living in. As a rule, she didn’t pay much attention to local crime. It was everywhere and it was a fact of life. There was always going to be a mob or a pimp or a drug lord, and she would be foolish to think she could fix it all. So she figured it was better to concentrate on things that would create a large change.

 

Daredevil apparently didn’t feel the same way. In fact, he was rather capable of taking down local crime. Hell’s Kitchen, Natasha had recently learned, was a dark and seedy place, filled with corruption and victims. Many of the cops were dirty, businessmen were paid off, and she even saw a senator arrested on the news. It was all quite a feather under the devil’s horns and he could have faded back into the shadows, content with the knowledge that he had taken down a criminal enterprise. Instead, he was out in the city almost every night, taking care of your average abusers and thieves. It was admirable, but foolish. At the rate he was going, the devil was not long for this world. Fighting like that every night was exhausting – Natasha knew that too well – and someone was bound to get a lucky hit on the guy. She got the feeling that that was a risk the devil was willing to take.

 

Perhaps the most interesting thing was that this devil didn’t kill. He didn’t use a gun or knife or anything but his fists and some billy clubs. It reminded her eerily of Steve, and how his weapon of choice was a shield instead of something more effective. And, yet, even Steve had killed. The devil must make a concentrated effort not to kill, which would only slow him down in the end. Natasha understood the value of a bullet to the head or a quick snap of the neck. Beating your enemy into submission was time consuming and tiring. Another tick in the ‘admirably foolish’ column.

 

So, Natasha was intrigued. It was something interesting to keep her occupied between Avenger business. She had JARVIS looking for Daredevil on security cams in the city, and he would compile them for her to view later. Despite the ridiculous amount of cameras everywhere, there was very little footage of the devil, leading her to believe he moved largely atop the roofs. She hadn’t yet found a rhyme or reason to his movements. He didn’t seem to run a standard patrol – instead he just appeared wherever he was needed. That was another unexplained trick.

 

“Is that your Daredevil guy?” Clint asked, walking up to where Natasha sat on the couch with a tablet on her lap. Without looking at him Natasha could hear the crinkle of a chip bag and smell the chips on his breath. Cool Ranch.

 

“Yes,” she said simply, not bothering to say that the devil wasn’t her guy. On loop, her tablet showed Daredevil’s spinning kick to the man in front of him, followed by a jab to the man behind him.

 

“He’s good,” said Clint, munching obnoxiously on his snack. “Is he some radioactive, super-serumed dude or a mundane like us?”

 

An uncharacteristic burst of pride compelled her to say that they weren’t mundane, but she squashed the urge. In comparison to the rest of the Avengers, it was difficult _not_ to feel mundane. Even as incredibly skilled spies, they weren’t alien gods or super soldiers. Then again, she and Clint had their own skills that were useful to the group. She shouldn’t let herself forget that.

 

“I think he’s just a man. He bleeds like you and me,” she answered, thinking back to last week’s footage that showed the devil taking a knife across his chest. He had staggered but kept moving. He didn’t brush it off like Thor or Steve might have.

 

“Hmm. Is it weird that I want to meet the guy?” Clint asked, head tiling to the side. “I appreciate someone who takes the law into their own hands. Hell’s Kitchen’s been a shithole for a while now. ‘Bout time someone took care of it.” He crumpled up his empty bag and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. It landed neatly into a wastebasket. Showoff.

 

“I’ve considered reaching out to him – maybe offer him some resources – but I wanted to figure out who he was first,” Natasha said, frowning down at the devil. She wondered if she could identify someone just by their mouth and chin. JARVIS apparently couldn’t.

 

“Any luck?” Clint asked, collapsing onto the couch cushion next to her like a ragdoll. He clutched a throw pillow to his chest like an endearing child.

 

“Very little. He’s obviously a Hell’s Kitchen native, seeing as all of his work is down there. He almost never leaves that area. But finding a white male of average height in all of Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t really narrow it down.” She hesitated for a moment, not comfortable airing speculation she hadn’t confirmed. “I think he might have heightened hearing. He tilts his head sometimes like he’s listening.”

 

Clint shrugged. “We’ve seen weirder things. Can you identify the fighting style?”

 

Natasha shook her head. “It’s vaguely familiar, but it’s a butchered version of what it might once have been. It’s like jujutsu meets boxing. He’s been trained, but I get the sense he’s rusty. I don’t think he was active before showing up as the devil.”

 

“So you don’t think he ever worked for anyone? He’s just a dude who took up a mask and said ‘I think today I’ll fight crime’? Someone had to train him, and I doubt it was the karate studio down the block or else he’d be dead by now.” Clint slashed two fingers across his throat as if she didn’t understand what ‘dead’ meant. He talked with his hands when he was tired, sometimes in fully articulate sign language if he was really out of it.

 

“I think he’s working autonomously,” she said confidently. If she was a betting man, she’d put money on it. “And I think he has a day job, because you almost never see him out and about past four in the morning. He must go home and sleep before the day begins.”

 

Clint clapped his hands together, a wolfish smirk marring his features. “Alright. I’m intrigued times three. Let’s recruit him.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes with a small smirk of her own. “How ‘bout we meet him first? He might not be trustworthy.”

 

“C’mon! A masked vigilante who fights for the little guy, leaving his victims alive, and then goes to work during the day? It’s like the best kind of movie - action, drama, intrigue.” He hugged his pillow a little tighter. “And anyway, it’d be nice to have some relatively normal people around here.”

 

She nodded, not necessarily in agreement, but at least in acknowledgment. “I like a good mystery,” she said in answer.

 

 

Two days later, Natasha and Clint found themselves in a Hell’s Kitchen alleyway with a wary devil across from them. They were both wearing street clothes in the hopes of coming across as unintimidating, but Daredevil appeared standoffish nonetheless.  He had one hand pressed to his side, the other clutched around a billy club, and his body was turned half away from them, as if to run away or make himself a smaller target. Still, his voice was strong when he said, “You’ve been following me.”

 

He wasn’t wrong. Natasha and Clint had hung around in a Hell’s Kitchen diner until JARVIS called with the latest security cam appearance of the devil and his location. From there, they followed Daredevil as he leapt from roof to roof, crime to crime. Natasha had thought that she and Clint were doing a great job at being discrete (it was kind of her thing), but still the devil had found them out. _How?_ They were out of the devil’s line of sight nearly the entire time. Was his hearing so good that he could make out their footsteps from so far away?

 

Their plan had been to follow the devil to his home, or lair, or whatever vigilantes had these days. After figuring out his address, it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out his identity, and from there they could vet him and see if he was worth making an alliance with. So much for that.

 

“Yeah, we thought we’d come say hi,” Clint answered, cheerfully. If anything, after watching Daredevil take care of would-be-rapists and muggers, Clint was even more enamored with the vigilante. Clint had a way with people, Natasha thought. He could recognize almost immediately if he liked someone, if they were a kindred spirit, if they needed help he could provide. Natasha wasn’t like that; people couldn’t be trusted because everyone had ulterior motives. Still, somehow Clint always attached himself to the good ones. It was real gift. Natasha envied it. “My name’s Clint. This is Natasha,” Clint continued, genially. He had already attached himself to the vigilante. That said a lot for the devil’s character; he had the Clint Seal of Approval.

 

The devil slowly rocked backwards on firmly planted feet. He was injured, blood seeping slowly through the fingers on his side, but he was also exhausted. Natasha recognized the look of someone who worked relentlessly through bone-melting weariness as if it were her own reflection. “I know who you are,” he said flatly, sounding unimpressed. So he recognized them – that was sometimes hit-and-miss when it came to the two more unmemorable faces of the Avengers. “What to do you want?” The devil had pouty, expressive lips, and a jaw that ticked in defiance. She was vaguely surprised he could convey so much emotion without the use of his eyes.

 

Natasha would let Clint handle this one. She was very skilled at manipulating people, but creating real relationships was a much harder task. And she wasn’t looking to pull the wool over the devil’s eyes. She was curious about the man, and felt compelled to help him out, but he wasn’t a mission. There was no need to try her tricks on him, and without her tricks she was unsure what to say.

 

“Like I said,” Clint began patiently, “we just want to talk. No ulterior motives. We’ve just heard about all the work you’ve done and wanted to meet the guy responsible.” Clint gave a small but sincere smile, eyes kinder and more open than usual. He was treating the devil as if he were a wounded child in need of a gentle hand. Natasha only hoped Clint’s instincts were as right as they usually were, because Natasha still saw the devil as a not-entirely-realized variable. She had instincts of her own, and, more importantly, facts ( _the devil was violent but not malicious, he didn’t kill, he didn’t do this for fun but out of a perceived sense of duty, he was trying to do the right thing_ ), but she had learned the hard way that suspicion is a person’s greatest tool.

 

The devil’s head tilted like an interested puppy, or a man listening for something, or maybe it was just a tic, but Natasha was adding footnotes to her enhanced hearing theory. Daredevil’s shoulder slumped minutely, and he pressed his palm more tightly against his wound. He swung his billy club out in a half-aborted gesture. “Well, now you’ve met me. Was it everything you hoped and more?” he said, almost flippantly, his upper body still turned half away like he wanted to leave the conversation behind.

 

Natasha considered being annoyed at the devil’s tone of voice, but she recognized deflection when she saw it. Clint, however, grinned brightly, amused and excited by the devil’s wit. He shrugged and said, “I dunno yet. We’ve only just begun.” That sounded vaguely ominous, and Natasha realized that, _fuck_ , Clint was going to be like a dog with a bone with this guy. Clint had found a lost puppy to take care of and he wasn’t going to give up easy.

 

The devil’s face scrunched in either disquiet, pain, or confusion, or maybe all three. “I…” he began, hesitating for only a moment before straightening his shoulders. “I need to get going. Maybe without the tail this time.”

 

Clint took a step forward and the devil stepped backwards instantly, like a well-rehearsed dance move. Clint held up a placating hand. “At least let us help with that,” he said, pointing to the wound on the devil’s side, still covered by a blood soaked glove.

 

“It’s fine. I got it,” Daredevil said obstinately, looking as if he were a trapped wolf, unsure but willing to defend himself. Natasha has seen the confidence with which the devil took down entire groups of people, so she was surprised by the wariness he was showing now. Was it pain and exhaustion that kept him afraid of a confrontation? Did he recognize that Clint and Natasha were professional fighters? Or was it because they weren’t bad guys? “I’m not looking to make any friends,” the devil finished.

 

Too bad _,_ Natasha thought, because Clint _is._

Clint rebutted, “But it never hurts to have allies. Seriously, we’re good guys, you’re a good guy. There’s no reason for us to butt heads. We’re just trying to lend a friendly hand.”

 

The devil scoffed, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Why would the Avengers care about a vigilante in Hell’s Kitchen? Don’t you read the news? I killed all those cops, remember?”

 

Natasha made a ‘seriously?’ face, and said, “We know you didn’t kill those cops or plant those bombs. Give us a little credit.”

 

“And, also,” Clint began, “this isn’t Avenger business – this is Clint and Natasha business.” Clint paused, uncharacteristically. He seemed to deliberate for a moment before saying, “Nat and I spend our days with billionaires, gods, and super soldiers, so we appreciate when the underdog goes out and saves other underdogs.”

 

The devil didn’t answer, but he also didn’t leave the alley. He seemed rooted to the spot, shoulders twitching with each breath. Natasha thought they were lucky they caught Daredevil on a night when he was tired and hurt, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have been as receptive.

 

“Just let us help with your stab wound,” Clint continued. “I know how much it sucks to stich something up at that angle.” He still had a hand out in front of him in a pacifying gesture.

 

The devil shook his head. “I won’t tell you who I am,” he said with finality. Natasha knew he meant that he wouldn’t allow them to figure it out, and if that bothered them then they should just give up now.

 

Clint grinned beautifully. “That’s a hundred percent a-okay. I’m just trying to make an alliance of bros here, not unearth your every secret. Can we take care of your side now, before you bleed out and render this whole conversation moot?”

 

The devil grimaced, but finally took a step forward. “Fine,” he said, sounding resigned and vaguely uncomfortable.

 

Clint’s grin widened and Natasha shook her head in exasperation.

 

_Boys._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the saying "better the devil you know than the devil you don't".


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha brought them to one of the safe houses she had strategically located in the city. It was a shame that she would have to abandon this one now, but the devil refused to go to the Avenger’s tower, not that she blamed him. When Natasha told Daredevil the address of the safe house, he took the lead, escorting them through dank alleyways with the fewest number of prying eyes. He seemed to know these streets exceptionally well, moving confidently in places that were hardly lit.

 

The walk to the apartment was mostly silent. Clint was happy he had caught his fish, Natasha was still wary of the devil, and the vigilante was keeping a healthy distance from the two Avengers. With each step his shoulders rose higher and higher, and his arm curled protectively across his side. He had his back to them while they followed in his wake, and she wondered at his decision to stay in the front. For as cagey as he was acting, it seemed strange that he would take his eyes off of them, let alone leave his back unprotected like that. Was he posturing? Trying to prove he wasn’t afraid? Or did he not need to see them to sense danger? That fit with what she already knew - that the devil could dodge a punch without seeing it. Maybe his hearing was such that he could recognize any nefarious moves they might make even with his back turned?

 

She thought about reaching for the gun at the small of her back, just to see if the devil reacted without looking, but Clint would give her his Disappointment Eyes if she ruined his bro alliance on a hunch. No, she would just wait until more facts revealed themselves. Patience, as they say, is a virtue, and it was one of the few she could afford to have.

 

Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to pry a little. “So, how did you know we were following you?” she asked, watching her breath rise in the cold night air.

 

The devil huffed a laugh or sigh, turning his head sideways to say, “Maybe you’re not as good as you think.”

 

Natasha didn’t bristle at that, but it was a close thing. “I’m exactly as good as I think. No more and no less,” she rebutted calmly. Nobody knew her own strengths and weaknesses like she did. They were as much a part of her as her skin and bones. She saw them in the mirror and in the creases of her hands. And she was damned good at tailing someone.

 

The devil shrugged, staring ahead, leading them into an alley that smelled like dead rodents. “Guess I got lucky then,” he said, his voice casual despite the weariness that seeped through.

 

Natasha felt a smirk tug her lips as she stared at the horns adorning his crown. So the devil was _humble,_ but, more importantly, he was deflecting. She stole a glance at Clint, saw him staring intently at the back of Daredevil’s head, and decided to take a chance. “Y’know what I think?” she asked just as casually. “I think you heard us coming.”

 

Daredevil didn’t react, at least not in any way she could see. That was mildly disappointing. He shook his head minutely and said, “That would certainly be a neat trick.” His voice just sounded tired, and for the life of her she couldn’t wrangle the truth from those words. Either, he had enhanced hearing and he was just trying to throw her off the scent, or he didn’t have it but was willing to allow her to believe he did if it made him seem more powerful than he actually was.

 

“Are we almost there?”  Clint asked, changing the subject to give Daredevil an out. Natasha allowed herself to glare at him only briefly. Clint just shoved his hands into his jean pockets, looking as if he were out for a leisurely stroll. “The blood’s gone down to your knee.”

 

Natasha looked at the devil’s thigh and saw the material shine darkly in the night. Blood had soaked into the fabric, slowly permeating downward from the stab wound at his side. She was impressed Daredevil was moving as well as he was – blood loss drains your energy like few things do.

 

“Nearly there,” the devil answered in that same weary, stained tone he’d been using all night.

 

True to his word, they pulled around a corner and Natasha saw the apartment building in question. She led them to a backdoor next to a dumpster and started rooting around behind a stack of empty boxes. Somewhere there was…ah, there. Her fingers felt the loose brick she had carved out in the wall over a year ago, and she grabbed the key from inside it. It was refreshingly low-tech, which is exactly what you want if you ever go on the lam. Pro tip.

 

Behind her, Clint chuckled warmly. “You’re like a squirrel, Nat. Only instead of stashing acorns, you have safe houses.”

 

Natasha straightened up and opened the door for the two idiots. “Oh, please, like you don’t have any in the city.”

 

Clint shrugged innocently and entered the building. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” he answered, his voice echoing in the stairwell. She knew if she asked he would take her to any one of his hideouts, just as she would do the same for him. But she wouldn’t ask, and neither would he. That was the kind of relationship they had – trust, but without the need to share everything.

 

Natasha kept a close eye on the devil, watching as he jerked his legs into motion with difficulty. His chin and lips were paler than they were before, and his body was bowing forward like it was difficult to stand. Still, he kept himself moving and Natasha followed behind him.

 

“You got any safe houses, Daredevil?” Clint asked naturally, like a friend asking about last night’s game.

 

They started up the stairwell, the devil keeping their pace slow. He let out a grunt that was probably supposed to be a scoff. “I can barely afford one place, let alone two,” he gritted out between pursed lips.

 

So the devil wasn’t rich, but that didn’t surprise her. People with wealth simply threw money at their problems; they didn’t tend to risk life and limb for the little guy. Stark was admittedly an exception. Although…Daredevil’s suit didn’t look cheap. Sure, his last ninja getup was as simple and cheap as you could get, but this new one was actual lightweight armor. It had to have cost a fair bit of money, unless someone owed him a favor. Or maybe he had a benefactor, but she doubted that highly.

 

On the second floor stairway, the devil collapsed sideways against the wall. He kept his balance and remained standing, but it seemed the effort of climbing the stairs was too much for him. Clint put a supporting hand on his shoulder, and the devil violently flinched and slapped it away instantaneously. Clint backed off, but kept his hands hovering close by.

 

“I’m just trying to help,” Clint said patiently, like he had done this a thousand times before (he hasn’t, but Natasha remembers a time when he did something similar for her). “The sooner we get you upstairs, the sooner we stop the bleeding, the sooner you get to sit down. Use your logic brain there, hornhead.” His tone wasn’t condescending or pitying – it was a calculated friendly challenge.

 

Daredevil breathed harshly through his nose, his lips pursed tightly. He didn’t look at her or Clint; he just kept his head bowed low and seemed to work on slowing his breathing down. Natasha nearly got sympathy pains just looking at him. Working through blood loss was a real pain in the ass.

 

The devil nodded and bit out, “Fine.” Almost immediately, Clint took Daredevil’s arm and wrapped it around his neck, his other arm reaching around the vigilante’s side, skillfully avoiding the stab wound.

 

They continued up the stairs, quicker now that Clint was carrying much of the devil’s weight. Natasha led them to a fourth floor apartment, tucked into the corner at the end of a hallway. Clint kept supporting the devil even through the dimly lit hallway, shuffling laboriously. Natasha unlocked the door with her key, held it open and said, “Put him on the couch.”

 

The men lumbered through the doorway and Natasha locked it behind them. She flipped on the light switch and took a good look at the place. It had been months since she was last here, and the open living room had accumulated its fair share of dust and spider webs. It was sparsely furnished and had no decorations beyond the heavy curtains that covered every window. But, most importantly, the apartment had a fridge full of water, a cabinet filled with dry goods, a rather impressive armory and a first aid kit that could bring a surgeon to tears.

 

When Clint set Daredevil on the couch, a fine cloud of dust misted upwards, causing the devil to cough and then groan in pain. Natasha walked past them and into the bathroom, grabbing her first aid kit, and then into the kitchen for a bottle of water. By the time she got back to the living room, Clint had already removed half of the devil’s suit, and the vigilante was sitting up with his head tipped back against the back of the couch, mask still in place.

 

Daredevil had the muscle structure of a gymnast, which seemed appropriate because he moved like one, too. His skin was pale, and the left side of his abdomen, underneath the last rib, was smeared liberally with blood down to his hip. He had bruises and scars, both old and new. Across his heart was the sickly yellow color of a week old bruise the shape of a boot, and smaller blue-black bruises were littered across his abs. He had scars that looked to be professionally stitched, and some that looked like clumsy patchwork.

 

Basically, the guy could take a beating.

 

Clint was wincing sympathetically as he inspected the stab wound. He breathed through his teeth and said, “I suppose a hospital is out of the question?”

 

Daredevil didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said to the ceiling, voice firm.

 

Clint nodded, unsurprised. “We’ll clean it out and stitch it up, but it’s deep enough that it could have caused some organ damage. So if you keel over at least we’ll know why,” he finished, in a pseudo-cheerful tone.

 

The devil smirked weakly. “I’ll try not to do that, then.”

 

Natasha handed the water bottle out to the vigilante. “Here. Hydrate,” she all but ordered. Daredevil took the bottle and lifted his head slowly. This close up and under the artificial lights, Natasha found the mask unsettling, entirely because she couldn’t see his eyes. They were covered by some red material she couldn’t place. Had the mask been a Stark design, she could figure that there would be some sort of HUD behind the material that only Daredevil could see, but that seemed very unlikely for a not-rich vigilante from Hell’s Kitchen.  It was certainly an interesting design choice and she wasn’t sure how much she should read into it.

 

She opened up the first aid kit and snapped on a pair of gloves. As she rummaged for all the tools she would need, Daredevil said, “No drugs.”

 

Clint sat back on his haunches and said, “I get you don’t want to be all foggy-headed around strangers, but there’s no need for this to be tortuous.”

 

Daredevil just shook his head, grimly resolute, and Natasha didn’t bother to try and change his mind. She would do the same in his position, after all.

 

As she began the painstaking task of cleaning and closing the wound, Clint got up and began rummaging around the apartment. She heard him opening cabinets and doors, and figured he was just snooping around instead of looking for something specific.

 

“You don’t have a tv in here, Nat,” he eventually declared, voice coming from inside the bedroom.

 

“This isn’t a place for fun; it’s for emergencies,” she said, not looking away from her work on Daredevil’s wound. The muscles in his stomach quivered only when she pushed too hard, and that was an easier barometer for his pain level than staring at his chin. It was really annoying not being able to see someone’s eyes, she decided.

 

“What if you have a _Game of Thrones_ emergency? Or a burning need to watch _House of Cards_? Hm? What then?” he said, sounding almost absentminded as he walked into the living room and began wiping dust from random surfaces. This was him being antsy, she realized. “What do you watch, hornhead? You strike me as a _Sopranos_ fan. Either that, or _Friends_ reruns.”

 

Daredevil had tipped his head backwards again, and his swallow was obvious as his adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t watch a lot of television,” he answered, tiredly. Then, unnecessarily, he added, “Not enough time.”

 

Clint had moved into the kitchen again and she heard a cabinet door open. “Oh? You got another job besides beating up bad guys? Are you trying to say vigilante-ism doesn’t pay well?”

 

The devil scoffed, causing her to tug a little too hard on one of the stitches. “It’s not as lucrative as one might think,” he said, wincing.

 

Clint came back from the kitchen with a couple granola bars in hand and he handed one to Daredevil, who fumbled for it seemingly without looking. The devil squeezed the snack lightly, a pronounced frown appearing on his face. Without seeing his eyes, she couldn’t decide what that frown meant.

 

“What keeps you so busy during the day, then, that you can’t watch tv?” Clint asked, taking a seat in the chair across from the couch, opening a granola bar of his own.

 

The devil was still frowning and he seemed distracted by his thoughts. Natasha wondered if maybe he had lost more blood than she thought and confusion was setting in. He tilted his head forward and it looked like he was staring at the floor. Gloved fingers played along the edges of his still-wrapped granola bar as he said, “Why are you helping me?” His voice wasn’t small or meek, but there was still an uncertainty that slipped through.

 

She didn’t look up from the rather impressive sewing job she was performing, but she imagined she could feel Clint still behind her.

 

“I told you,” Clint said, casually. “Superheroes gotta help out superheroes, right?”

 

Daredevil’s frown didn’t leave; if anything it tightened further. “I’m not a superhero.”

 

_Humble._

 

She glanced and saw Clint shrug. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone, but neither am I,” he said, his words self-deprecating but his tone nonchalant.

 

The devil shook his head, lips quirking into a small, wry smile. “I’m told there are action figures of you guys since the attack on New York. Sounds superhero-like to me.”

 

“Yeah, well, leading up to that attack I was under some voodoo, alien mind control and I did some things I’m not proud of, things superheroes wouldn’t do.” His tone was still casual but Natasha felt something roil in her gut. She knew Clint carried his guilt with him like an albatross, but he never talked about it. It was strange that he was bringing it up now. Was it a ploy to gain Daredevil’s trust? Did he think he needed to reveal something of himself to get anything from the vigilante? Or did he really just want to get it off his chest?

 

Daredevil’s lips twitched and he said, “I think ‘mind control’ was the key phrase in that sentence.” His voice was firm and on just the right side of kind.

 

Clint just breathed quietly for a few seconds before asking, “Where were you when the battle took place?” Natasha knew just as well as Clint did that Hell’s Kitchen got hit pretty badly in the melee. Was he just trying to beat himself up more?

 

A muscle in the devil’s jaw jumped, maybe in surprise at the question. “Class. Got me out of an exam, so thanks I guess.” It sounded like the devil was aiming for lighthearted but missed his cue.

 

“Class?” Clint exclaimed with a surprised chuckle. “I didn’t peg you for so young.”

 

Neither did Natasha, so that probably meant – “Graduate school?”

 

Daredevil licked his lips and just said, “Mmm.”

 

Natasha tried to hold back her smirk; the devil had clearly revealed more than he intended. This was interesting, though. A book smart, not-rich, humble vigilante from Hell’s Kitchen who probably-maybe had enhanced hearing. Was his profession something as illustrious as a doctor or lawyer? Was he a teacher, architect, dentist, businessman? And if three years ago he was in grad school, exactly when was he trained to fight as well as he does?

 

Questions upon questions.

 

She taped a square patch of gauze over the freshly closed wound and bundled up her bloody gloves. “There. Good as new.”

 

Clint mumbled around a mouth full of granola, “Your stitches are impressive, Nat, but I don’t know if I would go that far.”

 

She thought about throwing her forceps at Clint’s stupid head, but unfortunately she was an adult.

 

Daredevil sat up and began slowly adjusting his armor back around him. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quietly sincere. She knew he was really saying ‘thanks for not arresting or killing me while I was down’. Of course, there was still time for all that, but it wasn’t in the cards. She held no ill will for this do-good scrapper, a vigilante who was actually making a difference. She still didn’t trust him (she hardly trusted anyone), and he was still a dangerous oddity, but a faker recognized a faker – and the devil was not one. He was pure intent, a self-aimed weapon trying to protect the innocent, and she understood why Clint liked him so much.

 

“I need to get going,” the devil said once his suit was back in place.

 

Clint sat forward in his seat. “You sure you should go so soon?” Clint asked, brow furrowed. It was clear he didn’t think it was a good idea, and neither did Natasha.

 

She pointed her forceps at the vigilante. “If you rip those stiches after all the time I’ve put into them, I will be very unhappy, дьявол.” She put on the facial expression she knew brought grown men to tears, but she couldn’t tell if the devil even looked at her. He was facing her general direction, but she couldn’t track his eyes.

 

“That means ‘devil’ in Russian, by the way,” clarified Clint, unnecessarily. “And if she’s giving you Russian pet names that means she likes you, buddy.”  He reached over and patted Daredevil on the shoulder, the devil tensing before the hand even connected. “She calls me мудак, which means ‘asshole’, so I think she likes you more.”

 

Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes and the devil just quirked his lips uncertainly. He stood up slowly but didn’t sway, so that was a good sign. He was still pale and his shoulders were slumped with weariness, but he was only slightly shaky. He should be able to get home on his own steam, then. Clint probably came to the same conclusion (they often did), but he still asked, “Do you want help getting home?”

 

Daredevil’s small smirk said there was no way that was going to happen. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be fine.”

 

Clint stood up as well, and said, “Alright. Next week? Same bat-time, same bat-channel?”

 

The devil just looked confused. “I – what?”

 

“C’mon, the bro alliance isn’t a one-time thing, and I think we should introduce you to _How to Get Away with Murder._ I’m getting a vibe – I think you’ll like it. We can get a tv in here, right Nat?”

 

Natasha just raised an eyebrow while Daredevil began backing away towards the door. It seemed Clint’s plan was to just overwhelm the vigilante with friendly overtures.

 

The devil had his hand on the door knob and he paused, looking uncomfortable. It seemed he didn’t trust any easier than Natasha. “I…don’t think that’s a good idea. I appreciate the patch job, but…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I need to go.” And then he opened the door and was gone.

 

“See you next week, hornhead!” Clint called through the closed door, completely ignoring the devil’s wishes. He did that sometimes. She couldn’t criticize him, though - he had a way with making people come around to his side. After all, that’s how she and Clint met. Somehow, he saw something in her, and if he saw something in this devil, then she would follow his lead.

 

Clint turned to Natasha, and she hoped he knew that the devil may still be able to hear them. “What do you think? 60 inch flat screen?”

 

Natasha just shook her head and went to clean the bloody mess off the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just googled the Russian so hopefully it's correct. And this is still unbeta'd so sorry again for typos - I feel like I'm missing a bunch, but I'm getting tired of looking at this chapter. Also, I'm still concerned about my characterization. Am I making Clint too goofy? Is Natasha too long-suffering? Did it come across that Matt was having feels about proffered granola bars? Who knows! I just finished finals so hopefully I'll have more time to write :)


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